


Et Tibi Patri

by pudgy puk (deumion)



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Angst, Backstory, Character Study, Daddy Issues, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-20
Updated: 2018-05-20
Packaged: 2019-05-09 13:49:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14717261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deumion/pseuds/pudgy%20puk
Summary: Aymeric de Borel is not his father's son.





	Et Tibi Patri

Aymeric de Borel is not his father’s son.

The first time he learned this, he had celebrated his seventh nameday only a fortnight ago; his new toys were still shiny and he’d only torn one gilt button off his new coat while playing. An older child jeered that his mother would _hook_ it back on without delay, and when Aymeric leapt to the Lady de Borel’s defense, he was met with the derisive snort that Lady de Borel had nothing to do with it. She wasn’t his _real_ mother.

Obviously, the only honorable recourse for a gentleman to respond to such an insult is dueling—but, when the honorable gentlemen are, respectively, seven and nine-and-a-half, it’s indistinguishable from a fistfight: no pretense of dignity to anyone but the injured parties, loud and awkward and sprawling over the paving-stones outside the Last Vigil, quickly interrupted by angry and disappointed parents and uncles. Aymeric still viscerally recalls being hauled off of that bully—the sudden clearing of his head when he was pulled clear above the heat of fighting and yelling, the strength of even old nuncle Lionellais holding him under his armpits and lifting him so his legs kicked uselessly in midair, and how the rush of _powerlessness_ was almost as maddening as the original insult.

Aymeric was marched home without delay, where, Lionellais sternly told him, he would explain himself and his most ungentlemanly (“But—” “ _Most_ ungentlemanly!”) behavior to his parents. So he did. And so, in turn, _they_ did. They didn’t have much choice, really, when they reacted to Aymeric’s account not with approval of his virtuous defense of family nor even principled disapproval of punching other boys (either of which Aymeric would have understood) but with shocked and stricken expressions, like he’d turned over a stone and found a skeleton. When he was older, he would recognize the bitter irony, that he’d defended his father’s fidelity (and indeed, Lord Borel never loved another), though the man who fathered him truly was faithless in all the ways a man of Ishgard could be. When he was yet older, he would learn to appreciate that cruel irony, like the burn of cognac or the exhaustion after long marches or the ache of love.

But at age seven, the nuance of the adult world was beyond him. After the tears had ended and the embraces loosened, he understood that the Lord and Lady de Borel had not sired and bore him, but they still loved him as though they had, for those who did could not. He had asked if they were dead. They weren’t, Lord Borel said, and Lady de Borel squeezed him closer as if she could feel the chill those words caused. Did they abandon him?

No, never. Never, ever, ever. And he would meet them, his mother promised. When the time was right, his father assured him. They would be so happy to see their son growing up kind and strong, and with these words, they ushered Aymeric back to his studies and games.

Five years later, he learned about his father.

Twelve winters of age doesn’t qualify a boy to compete in the grand tourney, but it does make him old enough to squire the real contender, one Baptisteaux de Chantreneil (a robust lad of lineage on par with House Borel, but pledged to House Haillenarte; he would go on to serve honorably with the Rose Knights). Baptisteaux was gruff and slightly awkward, often curt but never cruel—still, curtness in so public a place left Aymeric more than a little self-conscious as he watched the bouts. Already, though, he was learning to smile and agree and smooth the way before him, and just starting to direct nervous energy that way, rather than scowling or fidgeting. So he watched the audience instead of his knight-in-training, from his and Baptisteaux’s family near the bottom ranks up over inquisitors and knights dragoon, and to the highest seats, the guests of honor. Three counts there were (Haillenarte absent; for his wife would be presenting him his next child any day now), some knights of the Ward, and high officials, civic and ecclesiastic.

Of course the Archbishop himself would not have been there, but there were a smattering of bishops and cardinals. Unlike the nobleman and commanders, who watched these youths tussle with naked interest and would whisper to themselves, discussing the ripening crop of young knights, the clergymen remained aloof. Like judges, silent, they watched—interestedly, even!—but what they made of their subjects, well, that was for them to know and for everyone else to wait. It intrigued Aymeric, who could see the value of freedom and privilege alike. A secret kept was a mass of potential energy, a ballista wound or a bow drawn, and it was at the moment of release that it became a weapon, and it could topple even the strongest of men, let alone children.

“Urgh—!”

Baptisteaux finally brought his opponent to his knees and accepted their surrender—he was winded himself, though, and bleeding from a cut somewhere on his scalp. As the crowd alternately cheered and chattered, Aymeric hurried to attend to him, bringing water and a bandage and his encouragement. Baptisteaux, unsurprisingly, was not much of a conversationalist at these times, and other than thanking him for the water, did not speak to Aymeric but to direct him in how to adjust his armor and tend to his weapon and wound. In silence, then, Aymeric tightened straps and wound the clean linen over his head, around his ears, feeling an itch on his own that he attributed to sympathy, suggestibility—but it didn’t vanish. Not with scratching, not with Baptisteaux standing and preparing for the quarterfinal match, leaving him once again to wait. The strange, itchy feeling spread, left him warm and fidgety—until, by chance, Aymeric looked again to the top box, for there, he saw one of the cardinals staring at him.

This man—still with black in his beard and hair, pale face lined but not lost in wrinkles and liver spots—was watching him with piercing blue eyes, and Aymeric was sure his regard was the source of his discomfort. It wasn’t the same sort of evaluating gaze directed at the competitors—those were performances being broken down for analysis, this man was considering him like a inquisitor, like a botanist studying an unfamiliar sprout, trying to identify what he was and whether there ought to be something done about him. Aymeric looked away, shamed, and swallowed a lump of anxiety. He couldn’t understand why his face should vex this man so, he was quite sure he’d never met any of the cardinals before nor ever offended one—after a moment, he risked another glance, but still that cardinal had fixed his clear eyes on him, stroking his beard in consideration.

Almost unconsciously, Aymeric sought a familiar face in the crowd, as if there was some kind of comfort or explanation other than their presence they could offer now. Lord Borel was easy to find, and it didn’t take long for him to notice his son’s nervous gaze. From there a brief conversation of subtle expressions happened, until Aymeric was able to direct him to the right highborn man (for finally the cardinal had stopped watching him, turning his regard back to a brewing upset in one of the other boys’ matches). And when he did—when Lord Borel finally pieced together what concerned his son, he went white in a way that Aymeric recognized. And, glancing back up at the cardinal, Aymeric realized he wasn’t completely unfamiliar. He saw those eyes in the mirror every day.

The rest of the tourney passed in something of a blur. Baptisteaux won. Aymeric himself was honored for his squiring and simple association with the champion. But all of it was empty, smoke that passed before his eyes and through his ears, until his family could speak to him again. What he had figured out, in a thousand hurried calculations, social algorithms ran and re-ran over and over until only one result remained, they confirmed.

The cardinal was his father. No, he wouldn’t acknowledge him—not yet, not yet. Of course he loved him, but the time wasn’t right. It must remain secret, but wasn’t it good, to have first seen and be seen by him when he was conducting himself like a proper young knight? Aymeric agreed it was. He did not show either fear or hesitation as he left them again, following Baptisteaux to the ceremonies for the honored champion, but now he was the one staring at that cardinal. All the evening, Aymeric watched him as he spoke, as he ate, conferred with attendants, even catching a glimpse of him with head bared, loose curls like Aymeric’s own, as he handed his miter to a round-faced lady milliner for repair. The cardinal, though, would now not even afford him the recognition of a glance.

Aymeric’s father never recognized him as cardinal. It took his investiture as Archbishop Thordan VII first, almost six years later.

Eighteen years old, the heir of House Borel grew into manhood with as much grace and honor as any adolescent elezen could muster. Skilled with the bow and sword alike, he could hold his own in most all the physical contests (only the Dzemael boy could reliably send him to the floor, but that didn’t count, because that behemoth could do that to _everyone_ ). What he prided himself most on, though, was the approval of strategists and tacticians—“captain material” he was, and perhaps commander, even. His future was bright, and the prospect of this year’s grand tourney filled him with anticipation. But before that—a moon and a half past, the old Archbishop had passed to Halone’s sacred halls, and the conclave had deliberated long before choosing the next one, and marking the next opportunity Aymeric would have to see (perhaps even speak to!) his father.

If Aymeric had grasped the nuances and niceties of Ishgardian social trouble at its highest level much faster than his peers, he had the motivation to. They, after all, were legitimate, so if they could not speak well to defend themselves, their pedigree could speak for them. Aymeric, though, aimed at the level of his ability without the fallback of a secure bloodline, which was risky business in Ishgard. And beyond even his own goals, he had to learn how to breathe the most rareified mountain air to understand his father. He knew that if he ever wanted to speak to him, face to face, he would have to be the one to rise. It was not the business of this Archbishop to bend for him.

So, at the investiture ceremony, Aymeric had pulled every string, called in every favor, and argued his right to a presence in the official retinue with a fervor that bordered on pleading. And it had _worked_. No, he wouldn’t be in the ceremony proper, standing on the pavilion while Thordan was sanctified, nor attendant to him, but he would represent his company of knights and House Borel, and be one of the first people Thordan VII saw as Archbishop. It was a good start, Aymeric thought, and if it were properly orthodox for Halone’s people to consider omens and portents he would have thought it a sign of rising good fortune, of closeness building. As it was, though, it made him overexcited during rehearsals, earning him rueful smiles mixed with chiding from the closest attendant (an older lady milliner, with ruddy skin that looked like a permanent blush at his antics). He would need to be still as a statue on the day proper, she told him; with a wink and his most charming smile he promised her he would be. And, for the most part, he was.

With his stomach tying itself into knots and his heart hammering in his chest, so loud he feared it might rattle his chain mail, Aymeric stood at attention through the entire morning of the ceremony. It was at once agonizingly slow, Aymeric made aware of every ilm of his body inside and out, and astonishingly fast—how strange it was that a man could relinquish his very _name_ inside of a bell, and be Thordan VII forevermore after, how odd that with a staff and a miter he stood as tall, as meaningful as the first Thordan must have been, when moments before, the cardinal was another old man, full-bearded to compensate for accelerating baldness. At once everything dripped with significance, and yet—and yet, even if he had discarded that name, discarded that man who had sired a bastard with a mystery woman—still the bastard stood to his side. Still that reality remained. Between the calls and responses, that thought curled and twisted through Aymeric’s gut, and he would have given anything to be able to banish it for good, and watch his sire receive Ishgard’s highest honor and celebration with all the joy he deserved.

Hopefully, it was merely hunger and indigestion (Aymeric had been too full of nervous energy to finish breakfast, and that had been before dawn) making him think and feel like this. There would be a fête after the ceremony concluded. That should solve his problems, so all he had to do now was make it through the closing, and Thordan VII’s exeunt. Flanked by all four counts, then the Ward, the Archbishop headed the procession off the pavilion, quiet and solemn. The music was soft, (it would build to a crescendo as he continued, just as had been explained in rehearsal), so quiet that the sound of his train dragging along the floor was clearly audible—until that went silent. Then the footsteps of the counts and knights scuffled to a stop, as Archbishop Thordan VII stood in front of Aymeric de Borel.

Neither of them moved, Aymeric in part because he wasn’t sure he could. He couldn’t even breathe, nor could he look away from Thordan VII’s eyes—they were surrounded by deeper wrinkles, sunken a bit more into their sockets, but still as clear as they had been years ago, as intelligent and piercing as Aymeric’s own. He was painfully aware of the growing murmur of confusion in the crowd, of the curiosity with which some ( _only some!)_ of the counts and knights looked to their Archbishop and to him, and of the brilliant red blush filling his face, but he could do nothing about it. The music was building at the wrong pace, while the procession was trapped behind the still archbishop, stood before a young knight frozen like a deer or a mouse, and just as panic was beginning to edge into Aymeric’s mind, Thordan VII broke the spell. He lifted his right hand, he performed a sign of blessing to Aymeric, and then resumed the slow processional pace. After a moment, the rest of the retinue followed, and a minute later most eyes had left Aymeric, and he drew a full breath to try and compose himself.

That was a recognition, wasn’t it? He had been given blessing by his father, hadn’t he? Certainly Thordan VII was stopping for no one else, along the length of the aisle. It was only Aymeric he had given blessing to, unprompted and spontaneously, and it had to be because he was his son, didn’t it? There wasn’t another reason Aymeric could think of for the new Archbishop of all Ishgard to pick just one person and signal his blessing; they hadn’t dealt with each other directly since that grand tourney years before. The house of Borel had kept a respectful distance, to keep the secret safe. There was no other reason for Archbishop Thordan VII to single him out for blessing, in the eyes of Halone and all of Ishgard, but that he was his son… and that he did not care if Halone and all Ishgard discovered the truth.

Suddenly, Aymeric was gripped by the need to sit down—lightheaded, overwhelmed, it was by sheer willpower alone that he kept himself standing. Already the ceremony had been disrupted on his account, he’d die of embarrassment if it happened again. But at the same time, as normal proceedings resumed and the curious glances aimed at him began to slow and then stop—well, it was normal. The rest of the world kept turning, the retinue was out the double doors, the musicians played on. For being the very first man to be blessed by this Archbishop, Aymeric felt rather more worried and nauseated than he thought he’d be.

As the order was given for his company of knights to disperse for now—out of dress armor, into dress attire, for the fête would be soon—Aymeric shook his head to clear it. Perhaps he would feel better with a light snack and time. The grand tourney, after all, was soon—if he did well, that would be not only a notch on his belt but a chance to deserve the company of Archbishop once more.

(That year, Aymeric did not win. The title went instead to one Zephirin de Valhourdin, a stripling of fifteen winters).

Seven years later, Ser Aymeric de Borel had yet to earn the personal, private company of the Archbishop again. He had earned his knighthood, dear friends, and more, but that still evaded him. Perhaps, though, _this_ would be the key—

“Hey! Aymeric!”

He turned around at his friend’s voice calling him, just in time to catch a bundle of—something, something warm and lumpy and slightly soft, wrapped in some linen. “Estini—oof, Estinien, what are you doing?”

“Tis a gift,” Estinien said, before taking a bite out of a small pastry, gesturing for Aymeric to “open” it while he chewed. Careful not to drop anything from the bundle, Aymeric did, and found a pile of warm little pies, buttery-golden, round with spiraled mold patterns.

“Pithiviers?” Aymeric said, then smiled warmly at Estinien’s nod. “What’s the filling?”

“Goat and—spinach, I think,” Estinien answered, studying the open half of the pastry he’d bitten into. “With onions. They’re in honor of your promotion.” He flashed Aymeric one of his rare (and they would only grow rarer) smiles. “Knight-Captain Borel, ser.”

“You know,” Aymeric said with a cheeky smile of his own, folding the napkin back around the pithiviers, “now that I outrank you, these kinds of gifts might be considered bribery.”

Estinien shrugged. “More for me, then.” He pushed the rest of his pie into his mouth, then (despite this) continued, “If you’re around tonight, earlier today the Forgotten Knight opened one of its best casks of wine for yours and Zephirin’s promotions, so…”

“Ah, I cannot—there’s a reception after the vespers tonight, and I should attend.” Shifting the napkin bundle from hand to hand, Aymeric explained, “There’s a bishop there I should be buttering up, myself, and if I arrived with wine already on my breath—”

“More for me, then,” Estinien repeated himself, but rather more pointed, as an interjection. “You said that last week. Do these receptions really happen that often, and are you _really_ needed at every one?”

“Yes, and—yes, but this promotion should help stop that.” When Estinien looked at him as if he’d spoken Doman or Hingan, Aymeric clarified further: “It is my hope that a good relationship and reputation with these gentlemen will permit me to request and receive audience with His Eminence.”

Estinien’s eyebrows arched high, and Aymeric began mentally rehearsing his standard answer to chidings and cautions about his ambition, before he asked, “Why?”

“Ye—I—But…” Caught wholly off-guard, Aymeric stuttered to a stop before giving Estinien the same confused look his friend was giving him. “Why what?”

“…Why do you want to see the Archbishop?” Estinien said, from his tone apparently confused as to why he had to state the obvious. “You’re… A knight-captain, not a priest, nor have anything to do with His Eminence…”

“You don’t know?” Aymeric blurted out—and judging by Estinien’s mystified expression, that was the right of it. “Oh…” For the past three years, Aymeric had thought it was essentially an open secret in Ishgard—never spoken aloud, nor committed to writing, but enough people had been curious after the investiture that… well. It had become clear, at least to him, what had happened in private conversations and discreet investigations. Now the secret was everyone’s weapon, fully armed, waiting for the ideal moment to detonate.

…Everyone excepting the most promising knight dragoon in seven generations. Aymeric shook his head and stifled a sigh. Estinien surely needed to learn at least _some_ social grace if he wanted to be Azure Dragoon someday, no matter his strength.

“He’s my father.” Despite having never spoken the words aloud before, Aymeric was still surprised at how they sounded in his own voice, foreign and somehow false. “I was adopted and raised by House Borel, yes, but—he is still my sire.” Estinien hadn’t asked, but that (apologetic) clarification still felt necessary to Aymeric.

“Right.” Estinien nodded once, expression unreadable. “Who’s your mother?”

“I still don’t know,” Aymeric admitted, shamed. “It—well, I might like to ask him.” Sometimes he had wondered about who she might be, what she might have been like, but—never for long. It twisted in his guts to imagine like that.

“I see.” Estinien looked thoughtful, then waved to Aymeric. “I’ll not keep you, then. But, if the reception _does_ go sour—you know where to find me.” He grinned ruefully. “Save me from Zephirin, he’s unbearable even with a drink in him.”

Aymeric laughed. “Fear not, I shall vanquish all the knights dragoon’s foes,” he joked with theatric grandeur, before turning to go his separate way. Before the reception, he had a gift of his own to pick up, for the bishop: a fine scarf, made by the very milliner to Archbishop Thordan VII, and her shop was not open all day. And then he had to bathe, and change into something appropriate for vespers, and find some time in there to eat a few of these pithiviers… But if he could keep climbing, it would be worth it.

In the end, none of his hobnobbing produced the audience he desired. It did, however, earn for him consideration for the newly-vacated position of Temple Knight Commander at the tender age of twenty-nine.

He was one of two candidates for the position, and it at once made him feel unworthy and jealous—unworthy, for it was a position of great power and staggering responsibility; if Azure Dragoon Estinien was the manifestation of Ishgard’s strength, Halone’s spear made flesh, then the commander of the Temple Knights was her shield, with every lost life on his conscience. Jealous, because the other candidate was _Zephirin de Valhourdin,_ three years younger and less experienced, slight of frame, virtually presence-less, nearly voiceless, and definitely humorless, and while Aymeric would never go so far as to say that Zephirin was _un_ qualified--he would think it.

Yes, he was bitter. Zephirin was something of a prodigy (no one could remember the last time a lad of fifteen had won the grand tourney) and undeniably a fearsome warrior—but, but still it seemed that his achievements were out of step with both his skill and his pedigree. Some around him, Aymeric knew, would consider him a hypocrite to resent someone who also enjoyed “undue” success, being that his legal bloodline was what it was while his talents and ambitions were what they were, so he kept it tightly under wraps. Only Estinien had any idea of how Zephirin grated on him, and even him only an idea, as Aymeric felt enough guilt over it to not disclose the root reasons. Estinien, after all, had come from _nothing_ to become Azure Dragoon, and while he wholeheartedly deserved it—a little voice inside Aymeric cautioned that he mighttake offense to the idea that Zephirin didn’t _really_ deserve his accolades, the same little voice that asked if he wasn’t just imagining things whenever the commanders, the clergy, or even dumb luck seemed to favor Zephirin.

So his guarded, secret antipathy only magnified the agony of waiting to find out—and the days he was waiting through were stressful enough on their own, with unexpected retirements, a minor furor in the Offices of the Inquisition, and yet another instance of that brutish Dzemael nephew putting a brother knight into the infirmary. But, barely a bell after midday, on a cold Watersday, the news came. Ser Handeloup had delivered a letter sealed with Ishgard’s own coat of arms, wearing a quiet but proud smile, and had let Aymeric hug him and kiss his cheek after reading the letter.

“Good news, I take it, ser?” The slightly facetious nature of the question was betrayed by the crinkles at the corners of his eyes and dimpling of his cheeks.

“The news I was hoping for,” Aymeric said, then followed, wearing a broad, wry grin, “My responsibilities have just doubled.”

Handeloup barked with laughter. “Truly there is no one I’d trust with this responsibility more.” He rested one hand on Aymeric’s shoulder fondly. “I think we’d better stock more tea, then.”

Aymeric joined him in laughter. “My friend, you wound me! I can certainly procure my own—”

Handeloup cut him off with a wave of his hand. “I will not hear of it. Nor, in fact, will I hear of you spending another bell in this building. I’ll handle whatever’s outstanding—go on, take the afternoon off.”

“Handeloup, I—”

He only crossed his arms over his chest. “I insist. Besides—” a sly glint was in his eyes, “Your concentration will be gone for the rest of the day, I’m sure.”

Aymeric thanked him again, and with one last hug, let Handeloup take over the work on that desk. Now—now, he had so many things to do, but first on his mind was to celebrate. He _deserved_ it. The weight of the responsibilities would catch up with him soon enough, he knew—but until it did, the relief of knowing and accomplishment was so elating that he could have flown.

How to celebrate? _With wine_ , was the first thing his mind supplied. _And Estinien_.Maybe even Lucia? He could celebrate however he liked tonight, because there wouldn’t be an official ceremony for a few days yet, and no one for whom appearances must be kept up or put in. Aymeric de Borel could do whatever he wanted, and that combined with the lightnessof relief to produce something almost intoxicating—he was grinning as broadly as any happy drunk as he made his way up through the Pillars, to his favorite vintner, and dangerously close to skipping.

The market stalls lining the Crozier were bustling at this time of day—when the children of the middling sort, the servants of the wealthy, and the proprietors of shops with a wealthy clientele ran most of their errands, so the crowd was diverse. It seemed like every sort of proper Ishgardian was there, hyuran or elezen, titled or not, young and old and man and woman and _yes, this was why he was Knight-Commander_. This was one of the faces of Ishgard he cherished, this was what must be protected, and maybe he was a little too exhilarated, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. All around him was the life of Ishgard, flowing like blood in her veins.

“Mother—but Mother, _please_ —” A maiden girl’s voice broke through Aymeric’s cloud of bliss; she stood at a goldsmith’s stall with two other children and what was clearly her mother (all of them had ruddier faces and full cheeks). “I promise I won’t ask for anything else—”

“Odette, I said no.” With a start, Aymeric realized he knew that voice, and knew that older woman measuring out golden thread and golden chain. “I’ll not trade a full larder for a fascinator, no matter how lovely.”

This was one of the milliners for the Vault—the Archbishop’s favorite one. Aymeric was intimately familiar by now with her shop, but he’d never before seen her not attending to either the shop or His Eminence. Of course, she would have had a family and children by now--but their separate stations in life meant that now was the first time Aymeric was encountering that.

“You could take an advance, couldn’t you?” Her daughter (she looked to be some ten or twelve years younger than Aymeric) tried to bargain with her even as the milliner haggled with the shopkeeper. “I mean, if the order’s so important that you’ll be working on my nameday, then—”

“His Eminence won’t accept that,” the milliner sighed, and Aymeric’s attention was now fully piqued. “Odette, darling, you know I can’t. Please—”

“I beg your pardon, but I couldn’t help but overhear…” All of them turned their faces to Aymeric, a mix of curious and wary. “But it is that fascinator the young mistress wants, and that golden chain madame needs, yes?” He pointed at both items in turn.

“Yes,” the milliner said, and Aymeric noticed that she was reaching for her daughter’s hand. “Ser Borel, but I don’t—”

“My good man,” now Aymeric had turned to the goldsmith, “Give madame twice the length she asks for, at the same rate.” Now he pulled his purse from his belt, smile wide, and widening further as he caught from the corner of his eye the wide-eyed expressions of her children. “I will settle the bill.”

“Ser Borel, I—I don’t know what to say,” The milliner was relaxing some—but still she looked wary, though Aymeric couldn’t imagine why. “What prompts this generosity?”

“My lady, I am having an excellent day,” Aymeric said, passing an extra handful of coins to the goldsmith, “and I wish to spread it.” With that he picked up the fascinator that Odette had been admiring, and beckoned to her.

Odette looked to her mother for permission, when it was hesitantly given, she stepped forward and, without any hesitation at all, bowed her neck. Aymeric fixed the fascinator to her head like he was performing a coronation, and once it was in place stepped back to allow her to admire herself in a mirror.

“Odette,” the milliner looked and sounded rather helpless, possibly due to the incorrigibility of her daughter. “Odette, thank your—thank Ser Borel.”

“My lord,” she said with a smile and a curtsy, Aymeric returned the gesture with a bow.

“My lady—have a grand nameday, and madame,” here he turned to the milliner _,_ bowed even lower, and took her hand in his own, “I wish the best of fortune and blessing of Halone on all your family.”

Strangely, she teared up at that—were more men crueler to her than her business demeanor let on? Or was she just emotional regarding her daughter? She was smiling, though, and finally seemed at ease, so Aymeric took his leave, still flying high on the road to the vintner.

What should he buy? Something fine, something light, something _sweet_. Let Estinien mock his sweet tooth if he wanted, tonight he would only bring home doux. And his vintner should have—not only wine, but mirror-apple cider, sweeter than honey and brighter than silver. Yes, this would be ideal, Aymeric thought as he entered the little shop, cool and quiet. A bottle of each would do the two or three of them, and then he ought to find something to accompany… perhaps at a patisserie…

“Special occasion, my lord?” the vintner asked, as Aymeric approached him.

“Yes—a promotion,” he replied, smiling broadly.

“Very good, ser. We’ve had many patrons for the same occasion,” the vintner said—leaving Aymeric blinking in confusion.

“—I’m sorry, I think there might be a mistake. What occasion do you mean?”

“Oh—Ser Zephirin’s, of course. It was only just announced a bell ago, but already his friends and associates are planning for it.”

Just like that, all the air went out of Aymeric’s lungs, and he had to grip a cabinet to stay upright. There _must_ have been some mistake. “What promotion?”he just managed to croak.

“To the Heavens’ Ward, ser.” The vintner was looking at Aymeric with bemusement and no small amount of concern. “Ser Vaindreau’s replacement was finally chosen by His Eminence. Zephirin will be the next Reverend Archimandrite. …Ser? Ser Aymeric?”

“I’m fine,” Aymeric said, looking directly ahead and lying. Distantly, he was concerned his grip might leave marks in the cabinet keeping him steady now. “I’m fine. Congratulations to Ser Zephirin.”

“…Indeed,” the vintner said slowly, and Aymeric could tell he had quite a few questions. Still, though, he chose discretion. “Anyroad! What from my cellars would most please my lord?”

“…Cider doux, please. Four bottles.”

After that, all of Aymeric’s questions seemed doomed to receive no answers. As Commander, his access to intelligence and all kinds of privileged information had reached near its peak, but still there was no kind summons from his father, no smoking gun regarding Zephirin’s ascension, and no word regarding his mother.

He tried an investigation of his own. He had that power now, to keep watch on people, to try and ferret out wrongdoing. But he ended it in less than a moon—the subterfuge made him sick at heart, the edging of it towards corruption and abuse of his power made him sick to his stomach. So he ended it, as discreetly as he began it, only ever learning the gossip about how treasured Zephirin was as Archbishop Thordan VII’s right-hand man, and that thirty-odd years ago his father had been having an affair with one of his attendants, a working woman of lower station. Perhaps she was his mother. But, perhaps not. Perhaps he would never know.

And then, one afternoon, in the middle of a thousand problems, a small, secret mission he had dispatched returned, and a thousand questions he had never asked were answered all at once. Now, his father’s faithlessness was more than his bastard’s misery. It threatened all of Ishgard, every man, woman, child. As Commander of the Temple Knights, they were his to protect, and but one course of action remained to him.

He was through waiting for Archbishop Thordan VII to honor him with a private audience. Now, he _demanded_ it.

Yet, once again, he was disappointed. His words could not reach the Archbishop, who was prepared to bat away all his passion, his arguments, his cleverness and rhetoric like confetti—and, Aymeric realized, with a hideous chill, his words would not save _him_ , either. All he had done was to disappoint him.

“…Once, I had hoped you might come to accept it as well.” Thordan VII’s voice was weary and resigned, as much as Aymeric felt. He was hollow, powerless—unable even to feel anything when his sire called him his son. That was a truth, but an inconvenient one—and now, Aymeric knew how his sire dealt with such.

As a final twist of the knife, the guards that Thordan VII summoned were Grinnaux, the most vicious knight alive today—and Zephirin. His right hand man, his Very Reverend Archimandrite. His favorite.

And, as they escorted him from the Archbishop’s chambers, Aymeric stared into the back of Zephirin’s head. Now he could understand the secret truths of Ishgard, of the Holy See, of House Borel and his very life, with terrible clarity:

Aymeric de Borel is not his father’s son.

**Author's Note:**

> I have been tormented by Ishgardian character studies for months, and they show no sign of relenting. Send help.


End file.
